


Hungry

by marzipan (orphan_account)



Series: seafood snippets [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, weird stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 16:32:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14898071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/marzipan
Summary: “I can only imagine how tender it must be. Blackened, perhaps with a pilaf,” Mycroft continues, quiet enough that the biologist wonders if he heard wrong.---@noregretsnotearsnoanxieties : Prompt #10 - I’ve got a hungeralso inspired by ll_again's hilarious tags on Mycroftshopping for dinner at the zoo





	Hungry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [afteriwake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/gifts), [ll_again](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ll_again/gifts).



Mycroft Holmes stands behind the reinforced glass, blacklight casting an eerie glow across his features. He reaches out as if to rap on the glass to wake the creature lurking in the waters behind it, but then retracts his hand. There’s a reason they’ve delayed putting it on exhibition, and why the aquarium’s biologist’s is keeping his distance.

“Despite its size, the creature is barely out of infancy, can you believe it?” Mycroft murmurs, more to himself than to seek an answer.

“Amazing, isn’t it, Mr. Holmes?” the biologist’s quavering voice replies.

“I can only imagine how tender it must be. Blackened, perhaps with a pilaf,” Mycroft continues, quiet enough that the biologist wonders if he heard wrong.

“And you are sure it is not for sale?” Mycroft asks. The question is punctuated with a quiet sigh.

“Sorry,” the biologist says, sounding far more offended than apologetic. “That is absolutely impossible. These particular cephalopod are so rare some think them a myth. Endangered beyond imagination, Mr. Holmes. Owning one privately would be—it would be illegal, sir.”

“Pity.”

“Well…”

“Hm.”

-

Mycroft Holmes does not often take no for an answer, but he does so with grace at the aquarium because he is a man of means, and there are other ways.

Anthea is shivering inside the car as he stands near the docks, armored in his long wool coat and holding his umbrella as a shield from the faintest of drizzle, waiting for the men to haul their cargo closer.

“Mr. M sends his regards,” the captain tells him, waving over his boys.

Mycroft just gives him a cold, bare-minimum of a smile and waits. The crates are carried over and dropped on the dock before Mycroft. One of the men hands another a crowbar, and the pop the top off.

Mycroft leans over to inspect the contents, feeling the chill of the heavy cold mist rolling out of the iced container.

“This will do,” he says, to the captain’s great relief.

-

John Watson nearly trips over a brick trying to catch up with his long-legged friend.

“Sherlock!” he calls out, just in time to carry through the heavy, black-iron framed glass doors before it swung shut, just in time for Sherlock Holmes to hear and ignore it.

“Why do I even bother…” he grumbles, more out of habit than concern for the upcoming scene Sherlock is no doubt going to cause. He rather enjoys it, personally. Most of the time.

He quickly pushes his way into the ritzy building as well, and then quickly does a double take.

John had known it was a fancy restaurant (”Opened not two weeks ago and waiting list for reservations is already two months long,” Sherlock had told him before dashing out of the cab), but this? This was light years past fancy. In just a glance, John was sure he glimpsed more gold leaf than needed to line the London Bridge. And the patrons were wearing enough jewelry to weigh it down.

John’s hand latches onto Sherlock’s coat, trying to get his attention to no avail as the consulting detective is angling for a way in with the pretty hostess. 

“ _Sherlock_ ,” he whispers. “We can’t just barge into a place like this, we’re not even with the police.”

Sherlock whips his head around so he can glare.

“There is something fishy going on here,” Sherlock says. “I know it.”

John is aghast.

“Of  _course_ it’s fishy!” John says, exasperated. “It’s a  _seafood restaurant_!” 

“Just  _look around, John,”_ Sherlock pushes, low and urgent. There’s something serious (nervous?) in his tone that makes John take pause. The pretty brunette host goes back to ignoring them, fiddling instead with the computer system, and John takes survey of the interiors.

There’s the sound of conversation and chatter, light laughter, a haunting theme for strings and horns in a minor key. The twinkling of champagne and wine classes and silverware.

“Take a  _closer look.”_

And then John sees. 

The man sitting by the bar is tackling his plate with gusto—and the dinner is struggling back. A big, purple tentacle covered in suckers. With chunks ripped out from teeth a silverware. 

The woman in the pretty blue dress—her ears aren’t quite right. Pointy? It’s hard to tell, and John has to squint, but then he thinks he sees blue patches and ugly gashes on her neck but his vision keeps blurring.

A group of girls in furs despite being seated and already starting on their courses are giggling and chatting, but digging away at their meals with their forks nonetheless. Except, the plates look completely empty, and they seem to be miming rather than actually eating.

The scent of sea brine rolls by and hits John straight on, making him blink as his eyes tear up.

“Perhaps the hydrophiinae steak, with a sea anenome reduction and essence of coral reef? And a rumor of Scylla for the missus.”

John follows the voice to see a masked waiter—one of those fancy masquerade ones that only cover half your face, showing a menu to a couple in tux and gown, with fish heads.

 _Fish heads_?? John does a double take. He rubs his eyes, and sees that the man has a head of russet hair and the woman has large blue eyes with crows feet, and neither of them resemble sea creatures in the slightest.

He throws a nervous glance at Sherlock, who has his collar up not gallantly so much as to shield himself from the growing strangeness permeating the room, perhaps.

“You’re seeing it too, aren’t you?” he tells John. “It’s real, but your brain will try to tell you it’s not.”

“How do you know?” John asks, bewildered. “What is going  _on?”_

A high, almost maniacally gleeful laugh interrupts him, and the two of them turn to look for the source immediately. That laugh’s haunted him before, and there’s no way either of them would be mistaking it now. Sherlock’s eyes narrow, expecting a trick, and he pushes his way into the restaurant’s seating area despite the hostess’s arguments, and John follows on his heels.

They stop at a table near the back, where a man in a white tuxedo, hair slicked back, is sitting alone at a table for two. Two wine glasses on the table, his drunk, his partner’s untouched, though the plate is cleaned off. 

Jim Moriarty stabs his fork into the pink, half-eaten monstrosity lying on his plate as he sees the two of them approach. He looks well-rested. Happy. Everything he has no right to be.

“Sherly!’ he says, the perfect picture of pleasantly surprised. “Oh and you brought your darling pet as well. Come, come join us for dinner. Or will you be dinner, hm?”

He laughs, as if he said something especially witty.

Sherlock approaches and takes the opposite seat, leaving John to roll his eyes and snatch a chair from a just emptied table elsewhere not too far away.

He returns just in time to grimace and feel his stomach twist and roll at the half-dead, spongy pink creature squirming around the fork on Moriarty’s plate.

“I should have known you were involved,” Sherlock says.

Moriarty blinks, guileless.

“Involved? This is just  _dinner!”_  he says. 

A waiter comes by to refill Moriarty’s wine glass and hand Sherlock a menu, which he snatches to read through quickly. His brows furrow, trying to decipher to text.

“Give my compliments to the chef, will you?” Moriarty tells the waiter, who nods before bowing off.

“What is this place?” Sherlock asks. 

“Tsk-tsk,” Moriarty says. “You haven’t figured it out yet?”

Sherlock give the room another once over, scanning for clues and finding only far too many.

“What  _is_  this place?” John echoes. It is  _too weird_. He has to know.

“Ohhhh,” Moriarty says, realization dawning and expression pitying. “Your brother hasn’t told you!”

“Told me what?” Sherlock demands.

A smile suddenly curls up on Moriarty’s face, as he waves at someone behind them. John turns to see the curtain to the kitchen entrance lift, and Sherlock must see it too, because he goes absolutely still beside John as the dark, heavy cloth parts and a tall man steps out.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock says.

His brother inclines his head in greeting, wiping his hands on a white apron that utterly shocks John. Mycroft, in a restaurant kitchen? He couldn’t picture it.

“Mycroft, what the hell is going on?”

He stops by the table but remains standing. Moriarty folds his hands together like a bridge, elbows on the table, and props his chin up.

“Oh this is going to be  _good_ ,” he says, though completely ignored.

“This, brother dear? You mean the restaurant.”

“ _Yes,_ Mycroft. Stop being coy.”

Mycroft pauses, long enough to trade glances with Moriarty, but that’s all John needs to know that whatever Mycroft says next is going to be  _damning._

“This,” Mycroft finally says, gesturing to the room. “This is our inheritance.”


End file.
